


before we ease away

by illcallubymine (goodgriefdean)



Category: Unspecified Fandom
Genre: Angst, Charmie, Drinking, Fluff, M/M, Pining, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 06:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13497052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodgriefdean/pseuds/illcallubymine
Summary: For Armie, that summer in Italy exists in his memory as a series of significant moments. Here are those moments.





	before we ease away

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! I've been working on this fic on and off for a few weeks now. This is the first part, and I am currently working on the second part!
> 
> The title of this fic comes from the beautiful song Call It Dreaming by Iron and Wine (seriously, go listen for some great Elio/Oliver and Timmy/Armie feels) 
> 
> Feedback is always always appreciated!
> 
> You can find me [here](https://illcallubymine.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!

I.

 

When the Meeting happens, it does so in such a blur that Armie can only remember flashes, feelings, almost like a flipbook that’s missing pages. It goes like this:

 

A wooden door with chipped white paint, easier to open than it looks. Muffled sounds from behind it— piano keys and voices. And then there he was.

 

“Hey! Timmy, right? I’m Armie!” 

 

Pale skin, sunburnt on the high points of his cheeks. He smiles, small, but his eyes are bright. His handshake is warm. Armie thinks he might have held on a little too long. 

 

“It’s so nice to meet you. I’m sorry— I’d love to show you around later, but the piano…”

 

Hands clasped behind his back.

 

“Of course.”

 

Luca, waiting for him outside. His eyebrows raised. “ _Brillante_ , he is.”

 

Armie nods.

 

_Brillante._

 

II.

 

Later that day, Armie is sitting in his room just after talking to Elizabeth on the phone when there is a knock at his door.

 

“Yeah?”

 

The door opens a crack, pauses, then opens fully, and Timmy peeks around the corner.

 

“Hey,” Armie says, chuckling, and Timmy lets himself in fully.

 

“Hi,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to kick you out. I just was having a pretty intense practice. Finally feel like I’m getting somewhere.”

 

“Don’t worry about it, man,” Armie says. “That’s what you’re here for!”

 

Timmy smiles at him, then, the same timid smile from before. “There’s an extra bike,” he says.

 

Armie must look confused, because Timmy jumps in quickly again. “I’ve been biking,” he explains. “It’s kind of the best way to get around here.” He looks at Armie, his face unsure. “I was thinking I could give you, like, a little tour. If you have time.”

 

“Yeah, of course! That would be great,”

 

* * *

 

There is a pleasant, warm breeze as they ride into town. The seat on the extra bike was too short for Armie, and he had to fiddle with it to get it to move. He could see Timmy watching him out of the corner of his eye, shifting on his feet.

 

“I love it here,” Timmy says as they round a bend and begin to pedal parallel to the river. 

 

“I can see why,” Armie says, taking his hands off the handlebars and leaning back a little, testing himself and the bike, breathing in air thick with the scent of grass and muddy water.

 

Laughter breaks Armie from his trance. He turns to Timmy, who is grinning at him. “I always thought it looked stupid when people ride their bikes with no hands.”

 

“What, am I the exception?” Armie teases, waving his arms around a little.

 

“Nope,” Timmy says, then leans forward and pedals faster, speeding away from Armie.

 

“Hey!” Armie calls after him, standing up to gain momentum. “Traitor!”

 

* * *

 

Later, they stop at a gelato shop in Crema. Armie offers to pay for both and Timmy eventually gives in. They go to sit at a table outside. Armie digs right into his, but Timmy seems to be deep in thought, his eyes fixed somewhere in the piazza, his spoon sticking out of his untouched cup. 

 

“You better eat that before it melts,” Armie says, fighting a smile as Timmy blinks out of his haze. “I payed good money for that.”

 

Timmy cracks a smile then, putting on his sunglasses before leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms. “If I have to make out with someone in front of a camera every day for two months,” he says, “I’m glad it’s you, and not some stuck up asshole.”

 

Armie laughs. “Likewise.”

 

 

 

 

III

 

A few days into filming, they were out late one night with Esther, Victoire, and some of the other guys. Armie had gotten a little too drunk, he knew that, but it had been so long since he’d allowed himself to let go for a night. His memories are hazy, but Timmy is in every one, and Armie’s hands are always all over him. A hand on his waist, both hands on his shoulders, dancing, Timmy laughing. His eyes were so bright.

 

Timmy knocks on Armie’s door the next morning at 10 am sharp, and Armie’s not sure if he’s ever felt pain worse than the pounding in his head right now. 

 

“Is he dead?” Timmy says after Armie has stumbled to the door, his tone teasing yet gentle.

 

“He wishes he was,” he replies, but finds himself unable to hold back a smile as Timmy comes into focus. He holds out his hand, and it takes Armie a minute to realize that he is offering him a glass of water. “Oh,” Armie says, blinking, a warm feeling curling in his stomach, and takes a sip. He holds Timmy’s gaze for a moment, almost unwillingly. Timmy’s hair is flopping over his eyes a little, and there is a look in his eyes that Armie can’t read. “Thanks,” he says.

 

Timmy gives him a small smile. “‘Course.” 

 

There is a pause, then, just one beat of quietness, before Timmy brushes past Armie and into his room. He seems to give the room a once-over— Armie’s drunken mess, his clothing from last night strewn across the floor, a spilled bag of chips by the bed— before spinning on his heel to face Armie again. “Coffee?”

 

* * *

 

There is a tiny coffee shop nestled in the heart of Crema that Timmy pointed out to Armie on his first day in Italy. _Best coffee I’ve ever had, hands down,_ he’d said. _I’ll take you there._ Armie hadn’t missed the way the tips of his ears turned pink after that.

 

The coffee shop in question is, of course, where they head this morning. Armie has on his biggest, most ridiculous pair of sunglasses, determined to get the best of his hangover, even though, as Timmy kindly points out when Armie expresses this, he’s done a shit job at that so far. 

 

The coffee shop is surprisingly busy, and it takes them ten minutes to get to the front of the line. Timmy shows Armie a picture of his sister that she sent him the night before. 

 

“She looks _gone,_ ” Timmy giggles, then nudges Armie in the shoulder. “Almost as bad as you were.”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Armie says.

 

“Hey,” Timmy says, his voice mock-serious, reaching to place a hand on Armie’s arm. “You know I’ll never judge you.” Timmy’s hand stays where it is until they hear a quiet _Sir?_ and realize that they are at the front of the line. 

 

Timmy steps forward. “Can I have two large lattes, one with an extra shot, please?” He goes to reach for his wallet but Armie is faster, practically shoving his card over Timmy’s shoulder and into the cashier’s hands. 

 

They step aside to wait for their drinks, and when Timmy turns to Armie, Armie says, “You know my order?” He’s going for sly, but there is something in his voice that he can’t control, some tiny tremor of vulnerability that he would rather not expose.

 

Timmy smiles at him. “Don’t be silly.”

 

IV.

 

About a week later, Armie wakes up in the middle of the night to an insistent knocking at his door. He knows, immediately, who it is, because who else would it be? He opens the door and Timmy practically stumbles into Armie, as if he had been leaning against the other side.

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Armie says, steadying Timmy with a hand on each shoulder. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

 

“Hi,” is all Timmy says in response, quietly, swaying a little under Armie’s touch. Armie has to lean down to catch Timmy’s gaze. His eyes are half closed, but there is a little bit of wildness there, and Armie squints at him.

 

“Are you… are you _drunk?”_

 

Timmy groans, covering his face with his hands, and lets out a soft hiccup of a sob, then sways forward, losing his balance as his head hits Armie’s shoulder. “Hey, hey, hey,” Armie says. He lets himself fall into the embrace, holding Timmy’s weight. Timmy sobs again, his shoulders shaking. “It’s okay, Tim,” Armie says. “You’re okay.”

 

He pulls back from Timmy and starts to guide him over to his bed, but then Timmy pauses, placing one hand over his stomach and the other over his mouth.

 

“ _Shit,”_ says Armie. They barely make it to the bathroom. Timmy falls to his knees and immediately begins to retch. Armie kneels down beside him and places a hand on his back.

 

When he’s finally finished, Timmy sets his elbows on the toilet bowl, resting his face in his hands. “ _Fuck,_ ” he breathes, hiccuping. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ ”

Armie reaches up to the sink and fills a glass with water. He shakes Timmy’s shoulder, gently. “Hey. Tim.” When Timmy doesn’t respond, he reaches for one of Timmy’s hands, carefully prying it away from his face. When Armie goes to pull his hand away, Timmy twists his grip, interlocking their fingers. 

 

“Don’t,” Timmy mumbles.

 

“Okay,” says Armie. “But you have to drink this.”

 

Timmy takes the cup with his free hand, and takes a few slow sips. 

 

“We should get you to bed, Timmy,” Armie says. Timmy tightens his grip on Armie’s hand.

 

“No,” he says. “Wanna stay here.” 

 

“Okay,” Armie says, “no problem. I can take the couch, but you need to get into a bed—,”

 

“ _No,”_ Timmy groans and pats the tile with a hand. “ _Here._ ”

 

“Timmy—,” At this, Timmy begins to cry again.

 

“I’m sorry,” he slurs. “I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking confused, I’m so fucking sorry,”

 

“How much did you drink, Tim?” Armie asks. He reaches out to smooth Timmy’s curls away from his damp forehead. 

 

“How much…” Timmy repeats. “I don’t know…” 

 

“Okay, that’s fine. Don’t worry.” Armie keeps his hand on Timmy’s face, letting his fingers trail down his temple and cheek. He knows he needs to be careful, to keep himself in check. “Can you talk to me, though? Why did you drink?”

 

“I don’t… I’m so fucking confused,” Timmy repeats, his eyes fixed on the wall over Armie’s shoulders.

 

“What are you confused about?” Armie presses, gently.

 

Timmy meets his eyes then, for one moment of intensity. Armie wonders if he’s the only one who feels it. Then, Timmy’s gaze slides away. “Me…” He wiggles their joined hands back and forth a little. “This.” He’s staring at their hands, his brows furrowed.

 

Armie feels a lump form in his throat. “What?” he says, then wants to slam his head against the wall, because he’s not being fair. Timmy is drunk out of his mind, and Armie is not being fair.

 

“I…” Timmy says, and Armie sees a flash of panic in his eyes. “I don’t…”

 

“Hey. You don’t have to say anything more, okay? It’s all good.”

 

Timmy nods, and his head lolls back against the wall. “Feel bad.”

 

“I know.” Armie squeezes his hand. He knows Timmy won’t remember any of this in the morning. “I know.”

 

 

V.

 

Armie has been dreading this day since he read the screenplay for the first time. _Oliver changes his way of dancing to a more self-obsessed style,_ it says. _A perfect new-wave style._

 

He’d been fidgeting all day, and the fact that Timmy wouldn’t stop laughing at his nervousness was no help.

 

“Oh, gimme a break,” he’d said at the coffee shop that morning, when Timmy had given a pointed look to his fingers thrumming on the table. Timmy just shrugged innocently and took a sip of his drink.

 

“And what is a ‘new-wave style,’ anyway?” Armie asked. “How the hell am I supposed to pull that off?”

 

Timmy patted him on the arm. “I’m afraid this is your battle to fight, my friend.”

 

* * *

 

What Armie hadn’t even considered was that there would be no actual music playing while the scene was being filmed. All he got was a beat before the shot started, and then he was left to his own devices, counting in his head, trying not to trip over his own feet.

 

It was awful, absolutely, truly, awful. Even though everyone was dancing around him, all the extras and everything, he still felt as if every single person was watching him. In fact, there was only one person, besides the crew, watching him. But he was the only person that mattered.

 

Armie catches Timmy’s eye almost right away on the first take. Timmy is watching him with a small smile on his face. There’s nothing mocking about it, just warmth, but the look buzzes through Armie’s veins in a rush so intense that he decides to keep his eyes closed for the rest of the time.

 

It drags on for hours, Armie getting more and more frustrated each time. He catches glances of Timmy dancing on the side and fights the urge to smile and roll his eyes each time.

 

When it’s Timmy’s turn for his dance solo, Armie moves back on the dance floor as he’s been instructed, and allows himself to watch Timmy when he knows he’s not on camera. Timmy sees him, once, and for a split second eyes darken and he holds Armie’s gaze as he dances, before Esther comes bouncing up to him. Armie feels dizzy.

 

They finally wrap at some point in the late hours of the night or the early hours of the morning, and Armie can’t stifle his sigh of relief.

 

“See?” Timmy says when Armie approaches him, a smirk clear on his face “not bad at all.” 

 

“Shut up,” Armie says, but he feels pleasantly warm and exhausted and can’t keep himself from giving Timmy a pat on the shoulder, his hand lingering there for a moment.

 

“Seriously, though.” Timmy says, his face earnest. “You are a lot better than you think. You looked good out there.”

 

Armie can only respond to that with a small smile and a nudge to Timmy’s side.

 

* * *

 

In the bustle of cleaning up and leaving, someone suggests that they go out. It’s 4 am; no bars will be open, but Luca offers to host. Armie is glad for the opportunity to loosen up after the shoot.

 

Luca’s place is large and he has a good speaker system. He puts on his 80s playlist, an obnoxious but energetic mix of 80s hits from Italy and America. Timmy and Armie both go straight for the drinks, and Armie can barely keep himself from chugging the first glass of wine. 

 

“Armie.” Armie turns to Timmy, who is holding two shot glasses full to the brim, waggling his eyebrows. He holds one out to Armie. Armie shrugs, downs the rest of his wine, then throws back a shot, fighting the urge to wince at the strong alcohol. Timmy takes it gracefully, and Armie gets lost for a moment, distracted by Timmy’s throat, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. When comes back to himself, he finds Timmy’s eyes on his face, looking at him with an expression Armie can’t read. There’s a pause, then: “More?” Timmy asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer as he pours the next two shots of vodka.

 

Armie knows that if he gets too drunk, he’s not going to be able to hold himself back. It’s been weeks now, too many weeks, of friendly (yet lingering) touches and meaningful eye contact and almost-hints. Still, he can’t stop himself from downing two more shots. Timmy, small as he is, stops after that when Esther takes a full shot away from his as he brings it to his mouth.

 

“Vous êtes vacillant,” She tells him. _You are wobbling._ She turns to Armie. “Keep an eye on him.”

 

Armie feels the familiar rush of alcohol in his blood, and decides it would be a good idea to go socialize. Socialize, in this case, means dancing, so he goes to the living room where people are talking and moving around to the loud music. He finds Luca, first, and bounces around him for a few minutes, rattling off something about how relieved he is that the dancing shoot is over.

 

Luca listens to him with an amused look on his face, and when Armie finishes, he places a hand on his shoulder. “You are drunk,” Luca says. “Where’s your boy?”

 

Armie laughs loudly at that. “My boy,” he says, bobbing his head to the music. “Not true.”

 

Luca simply raises his eyebrows, gesturing behind Armie. “If you say so.”

 

Armie turns to see Timmy walking towards them, that huge goofy grin on his face. He does a little spin just before he reaches Armie, and Armie suddenly senses empty space at his side where Luca had been. 

 

“Dance with me,” Timmy says, just as he and Armie come face to face. He’s all movement, youthful and confident yet controlled. Armie stays still. He can’t do this, not here, in this state, with all of these people. “Dance with me,” Timmy repeats, moving closer, taking Armie’s hands in his. “ _Please._ ” Armie can smell the vodka on his breath.

 

“I can’t,” he says, and moves away from Timmy, who looks stricken for a moment before slowly turning on his heel and wiggling over near someone else. Armie sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, suddenly feeling all too sober.

 

Armie goes to get another drink, stopping to talk to one of the extras he met earlier for a while. He is a friend of Esther’s, and just came from Paris the day before.

 

“Your dancing was very good,” he says to Armie, with a knowing wink. 

 

“Thanks man,” Armie laughs. He knew it was clear to everyone just how uncomfortable he’d been.

 

When Armie returns to the living room, the first thing he sees is Timmy and a girl from set that day. They are dancing close to each other, though they aren’t touching. The song is upbeat but has a sensual groove to it. The girl is obviously a dancer, but Timmy is holding his own. Armie stays in the doorway, frozen, as he watches the way Timmy moves, how he rolls and twists his body so perfectly in time with the music, heat in his eyes. Then he catches Armie’s gaze, and Armie looks away almost immediately. _This is too much,_ is all he can think. _This is too intense._

 

He and Timmy seem to almost dance around each other for the next two hours. Armie isn’t sure if it’s intentional on Timmy’s part, but they barely see each other, one turning away the second the other is near.

 

It’s killing Armie. It really is. His entire body feels wound up tight, and there is a pit in his stomach. But there is also heat and excitement. The push and pull of it all threatens to overtake him.

 

This is how it is, how it will always be: Give and take, fear and desire, all at once safe and completely in danger. It is an all-consuming, ruining type of feeling. Armie does not know if he can bear it a moment longer, but the thought of losing it is enough to bring him to his knees. 

 

And it’s now, when Armie is so lost in thought that he can’t even see what is in front of him, that Timmy appears. He walks right up to Armie, and with a hand on his chest, pushes him backwards out of the living room doorway.

 

“Timmy, what the—,” Armie loses his breath as his back hits the wall behind him, just to the right of the doorway he’d been standing in moments before.

 

Timmy presses him into the wall with his body, one hand on the wall to Armie’s left. He looks wrecked, sweaty from dancing, breathing hard from his mouth. “I didn’t know,” he says. His free hand grabs a fistful of Armie’s sleeve. 

 

It takes everything Armie has to not lean into him, to not pull him into his body and kiss him until they are both dizzy. “You what?”

 

Timmy leans forward, dropping his head for a moment before looking back up. This close, Armie can see so much— the flush high on his cheeks, the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead from dancing. Timmy is still breathless, and his body feels warm and buzzing.

 

“I saw you looking at me,” he breathes. “Today. On set. Here.”

 

“We shouldn’t—,”

 

“I didn’t know you wanted me.” 

 

This ache, the one that Armie has felt since the first week in Crema, all at once becomes excruciating, searing, and Armie has no choice but to give in, to finally curl around Timmy and sigh into his ear. 

 

“Don’t be silly.”

 

* * *

 

Soon after, Armie leads Timmy back through the house and into the street, where the sky is slowly showing traces of dawn. They walk the short distance to Armie’s building in slow silence, and it’s only then, when they arrive at Armie’s door and enter his apartment and it’s just them _at last_ , it’s only then that Armie finally allows their lips to meet. 


End file.
